Active Stimulation
by Everything-In-Focus-94
Summary: All my prompt fills/drabbles/song fics for this fandom. Warning high chance of slash  light and full on  and crack. Rated because I don't know what prompts I'll be filling in the future. Any prompt leave in my inbox or review them and I'll see to it!
1. Chapter 1:Under The Influence PART 1

Under The Influence

_Promp Fill t: Drunk Holmes confesses his love for Watson. Watson thinks it's just the alcohol talking. Thing is, it isn't. _

PART ONE

_._"Jo-Joooohn-JOHN!" Sherlock slurred, tumbling from his perched spot on the couch, arms outstretched to embrace his flatmate, his dressing gown fanning about him in a similar fashion to a superhero's cape in the air for a moment, although the drunken detective certainly lacked the poise of most heroes, falling to the floor with a huffed "unf".

John surveyed his friend for a moment, taking in the normally curly now downright rumpled black hair, the mismatching suit shirt, jacket and pyjama bottoms and the hundreds of empty vodka and whisky bottles littering the table and ground around him. John quirked an eyebrow at the detective lying flat groaning on the floor.

"How much did you have Sherlock?" he asked, his breath turning into a sigh as it left his mouth. Sherlock groaned, pushing himself upwards with his palms, a doped and un-characteristic smile on his face.

"Ju-just a bottle... or three... Or _fiiiivvve.. Six?_" Sherlock pondered dragging his argumentative body into a standing position, his arms dangling forwards, fingertips dragging on the floor. He slumped backwards, his arms weighing him down and threatening to pull him backwards, returning to the floor.

John rushed forward, practically tackling Sherlock to the couch to ensure he didn't do any more damage to himself and their already ransacked apartment.

They landed in a tangled mess, arms and limbs (mostly on Sherlock's part) flailing around then, John practically sitting on Sherlock chest to get him to sit still before he did any more damage to himself or John for that matter.

Sherlock's free hand came up to John's face, running his calloused fingertips over the doctors face, his middle finger tracing the path from John's eyebrows, over the bridge of his nose, over the bow of his top and finally gently manipulating John's bottom lip with his finger, parting his lips and allowing his hushed breath to pass through the open lips and into the detective's face.

His hand dropped to his side, his breath hitching in his throat and pupils widening in time with John's whole eyes.

"John..." he half whispered, half slurred, his speech taking on a whimsical childlike quality that contrasted beautifully with the deep, guttural tone of his voice. The voice that John had come to love. John's brow furrowed, and he hastily scooted to his feet.

_Come to love._

_COME TO LOVE. _Since when had he begun thinking like that?

Sherlock's probing eyes swept over him, still as piercing and perceptive as ever despite his intoxicated state.

"Have... Have I done something wrong?" he whispered, that kid-like air appearing in his voice, as well as the tears in his eyes. Oh bloody hell... Sherlock folded forward, tears streaming down his face and his voice whining at a pitch John couldn't quite believe the deep voiced man could reach.

"No... No Sherlock. You haven't done _anything._" John whispered, sitting down on the couch beside his weeping flatmate, who had shuffled into a ball, his head on his knees, sniffing pitifully, gently placing a patting hand on the man's back.

Jesus, only Sherlock could go from emotionally stunted, to out of control horny to clinically depressed with nothing but a few bottles of alcohol and a few hours. And only John would be stupid enough to be the one comforting him and not slowly backing out the door.

_"It's because you love him." Sally's teasing words at a crime scene the other day came back to him, after they'd had a similar conversation._

John flinched away, just as Sherlock's eyes flashed upwards and his face crumpled, as his eyes watched John's hand move from his back. A wail escaped his lips, fresh tears falling from his eyes, blocking John's pitiful attempts at comfort.

"I'm hideous!" he yelped, burrowing himself back into a ball and rocking backwards and forwards in small rocking motions. The effect was lessened somewhat by Sherlock tipping from his seat and falling flat to the floor once more, his limbs spread and a pained expression on his face. John jumped to the floor, wrapping his arms around his flatmate's sobbing frame. Sherlock's face pressed into his neck, tears dripping down his jumper, making small trails of the water trickle down his chest.

"Why does no-body love me" Sherlock said, his voice muffled from his position in the crook of John's neck.

"I don't know why Sherlock." John whispered, reassuringly, rubbing small circles into his flatmates back.

"I'm not the most lovable person I know, but I can love. I love my mummy, and my brother... sometimes, and Lestrade's just the most love-*hic*ly man I've met. And Mrs Hudson..." He slurred, his eyelids dropping and the his breathing beginning to slow into a more normal pace.

John nodded. He opened his mouth to speak but was cut off by Sherlock practically crawling into his lap to envelop him in a long gangly hug, his legs and arms wrapped around John's jumpered torso, holding him still in a vice-like grip.

" And I love you... Love you so much John. More than you know. Never will know. Love you John." He muttered, his eyes looking up at him dopily. John only just managed a gasp of surprise as Sherlock's mouth moved purposefully and seared his with a heart-stopping kiss.

The detective's fingers moved into the short hair on the bag of John's neck, digging in with his nails oh so slightly, his tongue moving to meet John's opening mouth, infiltrating his taste buds with that taste/smell he'd come to associate with Sherlock, all enveloped in the hot taste of whisky and other alcoholic substances, before he fell snoring to a shocked John's shoulder.


	2. Chapter 2: Under The Influence PART 2

UNDER THE INFLUENCE

PART 2

John is sitting bolt upright, eyes fixed on the fireplace opposite him and his hand dangling in a lukewarm cup of tea when Sherlock stumbles down from his room.

John flinches at the noise as Sherlock half-trips into the living room, cursing under his breath as his toe collides with the coffee table. He's still hopping on one foot as he lands on the couch , swinging his body round so he plops with his head on John's lap, in the position they always sit in.

However, no comforting warmth of John's lap or tender threading of his hands through his hair greet him, but the harsh, solid feel of the old couch as his aching skull slaps against it. He groans in pain, placing his palms to his searing forehead, hissing and turning to face John.

He's scooted as far as he can from Sherlock, squeezing himself against the arm-rest a look of fear- no, terror etched on his face, his eyes wide and worried at Sherlock's presence. Sherlock frowns, immediately hissing as his head protests to this action.

"Do we have any pain-killers?" he groans, massaging the pounding mass of cells that was once his head. John falters for a moment, his voice failing to form in his throat.

"Nooo..." he clears his throat to rid his voice from the 2 octave raising lump in his throat. "No, you used them all last week when you did that experiment on their rates of dissolution." He manages to choke out.

"I knew that painkillers couldn't dissolve at the speed the boyfriend said she'd taken them... even in gastric acid. Why did the boyfriend have to kill her then, when _I need them_." Sherlock moans, shooting the trickle of light in the room with a severe look.

"Yes, I'm sure the victim would appreciate you suffering so much when she painfully overdosed on her insulin injection." John snapped back, not looking at the hurt and confused look in Sherlock's eyes.

"John... you... you were at Sarah's last night weren't you? You weren't here when I was drunk..."

John's expression softened. Was Sherlock one of _those_? An amorous drunk? Kissing everyone within reach? He didn't really love John.

"Yes..." he replied slowly.

A slow whine escaped Sherlock's mouth part at his pounding head and part at this revelation.

"What did I say?" Sherlock moaned, covering his eyes, not really wanting to know the truth but also needing to know desperately.

"That. That you loved me" John was cut off by another unholy whine that escaped Sherlock's throat.

"Why do I always tell my deepest secrets when I'm- John?" Sherlock was interrupted by a slam of the door and John's footsteps running up the stairs.

A smile cracked onto Sherlock's face, and he took his hands from his head and placed them behind his head. He looked at the whisky bottle on the floor, thinking how the apple juice had tasted slightly off the night before.

It was one way of telling John he supposed.


	3. Chapter 3: Is It In?

Is It In?

"Is it in?" Sherlock groaned, exasperated from his spot in front of John. John immediately stopped what he was doing, wiping spit and other fluids from his mouth.

"Sherlock!" he retorted. Sherlock gave him a look from over his shoulder, pouting.

"I know what I'm doing... Now will you shut up and hold still. You're making it more difficult to do it... May I remind you""I know, I know" Sherlock interjected, wiping his sweaty hands on his knees.

"It's my own stupid fault, I was the one who asked you to do this... but _please_ hurry up John we don't have much time." he whined. John rolled his eyes and huffed at Sherlock's impatience.

"Oh for... fine I'll hurry up, but for goodness sake stop fidgeting, you keep jogging me and making me miss." John growled, shooting evils at the back of his flatmates head. Sherlock huffed, crossing his arms, staying silent.

A moment of silence and stillness passed, John with his tongue sticking out in concentration before he gave a cry of success. Sherlock promptly jumped a mile, before crying out in pain.

"Shit... Sherlock. Did I get you?" John said leaping to his feet.

Sherlock rubbed his bleeding leg and snatched the needle and thread from Johns hands, leaving the room muttering about next time doing his own sewing.


	4. Chapter 4:Once,Twice,Three Times A Lady

Once, Twice, Three Times a Lady

Fic Prompt: After an experiment goes wrong, Sherlock becomes a woman. Stuck as one for 24 hours John and him decide to answer the immortal question, is sex really better from a woman's point of view?

Bang. _Bang .BANG._

John barely looked up from his laptop at the mini-explosion that shook the flat, causing the fuses to short momentarily and his router lights to flicker threateningly for a moment. It was part the norm for 221b to experience some sort of experiment gone wrong every so often, more often than not resulting in the explosion he'd just witnessed, and after a few jumpy first weeks after moving in John unbelievably had gotten used to it.

He was not used however to the shrill shriek that filled the flat mere minutes later, echoing up the steps and infiltrating his open door. He was on his feet in a second, first aid kit in one hand and gun in the other (because god knows what Sherlock had created/summoned this time- it had happened before...) and was flying down the stairs calling his flatmate name.

"Sherlock? SHERLOCK?" he called into the quickly clearing smoky room, the bright pink smoke filtering out of the window that the man had clearly opened.

"Good, he's survived." John thought simply, holding a hand over his mouth as not to inhale the smoke, a slight cough as he unintentionally inhaled a stray sweater string. His eyes watered, the orbs staining themselves a similar colour as the smoke surrounding him.

"In here." A high voice pitched voice came from the general direction of the kitchen that seemed to thankfully have escaped the most of the smoke damage.

John would have recognized that tone anywhere, that slight mono-tone of boredom raised slightly in alarm as the man it belonged to waited for John's reaction to the mess he'd made. None of them were forgetting the incident with the exploding cadaver in a hurry. He could even recognize it 3 octaves higher than Sherlock's usual grumble.

"Did you inhale smoke? Your voice has gone..." John stopped mid-sentence and blinked. Then blinked again. Then gave one final wipe of his eyes before blinking again. Nope, nothing wrong with his eyes.

The person sitting in his kitchen table gave a sigh of annoyance, flicking long black curls out of their eyes.

"There is nothing wrong with your eyes John... Nor has the smoke addled with your brain causing you to hallucinate..." a wave of a hand over their body. "This. And no I'm not playing a practical joke on you." they spat.

John hastily closed his mouth to refrain from asking those exact questions. Definitely Sherlock then.

"How... " he whispered, his eyes flickering over Sherlock in amazement.

"I have no bloody clue" Sherlock replied, very feminine hands flying up in the air to illiterate the point and Sherlock's confusion at for once not having an answer.

John could think only one thing. Sherlock made a bloody stunning woman.


End file.
